A neighbor's small English ivy plant grew under our fence about three or four years ago. It looked so beautiful covering the bland beige plastic fence that it was hard to resist letting it grow. As it kept quickly growing, extending, and covering, I had un uneasy feeling and it eventually became dread. English ivy is as invasive as it is sheltering. I knew that although the lush, green canopy it provided on my lower deck gave me a respite from life, it cocooned me into a false sense of peace. More than that, it started to feel restrictive. The plant will develop impossibly thick vines that stem from deep, sinewy roots. The climbing vines sprout hairy shoots that grip onto anything, wooden posts, plastic containers, etc. I became aware that I had let it begin to overtake the structure of my home. The deck posts were being choked and the paint peeled off.
This made me think of the parallels with my own life. How often do I grip on to the nearest and most attractive thing in hopes to grow, regardless of the damage that could ensue? Does thoughtless attraction distract me just long enough to let the unattended get out of control?
Last week, I took to the chore of tearing it all down. It was an impulsive act but not entirely unplanned. I was simultaneously aware of the destruction I caused to this living thing and the necessity for doing so. If I let nature overrun my home, there would be no room for other growth. No matter how much it satisfied my fancy, I knew it needed to be cleared to make room for myself.
So my deck looks bare today and I am free of distraction to expand. I can't hide any longer behind the anonymity the ivy provided but I thank it for the lesson.
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